


Glimpse

by headrush100



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headrush100/pseuds/headrush100
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An early meeting, set vaguely between series 2 and 3 of the Tenth Doctor's run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glimpse

It’s almost pitch dark in the alley. At the far end, almost hidden beyond the overflowing skips and piled-up crates, stands an old police box – it may provide some shelter at least, if you can make it that far. Every step is agony, you cannot believe how much the blast from that metal monster hurts. You inch your way towards the goal, but your vision is narrowing, there’s a high-pitched ringing in your ears, and you are so, so weak. You stumble, catch yourself on a rubbish bin, and stagger on. After what seems an age, you can reach out and touch the cold handle of the police box. You pull. It’s locked. Your last hope gone, your knees buckle and you sink to the ground, clutching your side, too weak to try and get your mobile out to call for help.

Suddenly there’s explosions round the corner, and someone running and splashing through the puddles behind you. The footsteps come to an abrupt stop, and now all you can hear is the sound of rain sizzling on the concrete, and traffic in the distance.

“Hello?” says a male voice, wary, but not hostile, with a distinct undercurrent of urgency.

You would reply if you could. You would even turn your head to look at him if you weren’t about to pass out from pain and shock. Slowly, his footsteps draw nearer, presumably to get a better look at you. “Oh,” he breathes, as though he knows, and understands. Relief courses through you. Perhaps you aren’t going to have to explain anything to him; in fact, perhaps he could explain to _you_ what happened. A moment later you hear a key enter a lock, turn, and you rock forward as the door to the police box swings open.

In the distance, coming closer, metallic voices grate out, _“Destroy The Doctor, Destroy The Doctor!”_

Strong arms slide under your armpits, and you are halfway to your feet before the pain explodes through your side, and there isn’t even time to scream before everything goes mercifully black.

***

You return to consciousness via an immense eruption of burning pain. You loose an involuntary cry, dimly aware of him murmuring, “Sorry, sorry.” Then his cool hand is there across your forehead, soothing not only the raging heat there, but far deeper, quelling the fast-rising panic in your chest. 

He uses your name, but you’re too addle-brained to question how he knows it, and sink into that welcoming darkness again.

***

The next time you open your eyes, the light is dim, and it’s ever so quiet. You are lying between clean-smelling sheets in a comfortable bed. Rain pounds on the roof. You feel really quite peaceful, and very, very sleepy. You close your eyes, and don’t even open them at the sound of his approach.

The bed dips as he sits down. There’s a bit of rustling, the sound of something sloshing in a bottle, and the covers are drawn back a little. Something cool and wet swipes over your arm, and then there’s a small sting. “Antibiotic,” he says quietly, and rubs your arm again. Another sting. “Painkiller. Very strong.” Those cool, sure fingers press gently against your forehead. “You’ll be all right. Just relax.”

You are so sleepy. Something deep in your mind tells you that you are alone with a strange man who is doing God knows what to you; but overriding that is a sense of peace and trust that you have not felt for a very long time, perhaps ever.

***

His hand slides up the back of your shirt, brushing over what must be thick bandages protecting your injuries. A cool metal disc presses between your shoulders. You must be hot, for it to feel as cold as it does. “Take a deep breath,” he says, still quietly, as though respecting the fact that you may be asleep. You do as he says, repeatedly, as he moves the instrument around, listening without comment. You don’t even protest beyond a muttered, “Watch where you’re going with that, Sunshine,” when he moves it around to the front, listening there. 

That done, he turns away for a moment, rummaging in a bag on his other side. The rain is coming off the roof like there’s no tomorrow. You wonder faintly if there _will_ be a tomorrow. “What _were_ those things?” you mumble. 

“Oh, they’re gone,” he says blithely, and you drift off again. A touch on your shoulder brings you back. “Open your mouth,” he says, like a voice in a dream, and then a thermometer pushes in. “Sorry, it’ll take a few minutes,” he says. “This was the only sort I could find on the spur of the moment. A bit antiquated even by the standards of _your_ time. No offense.” His hand squeezes your shoulder for a moment. In this dim light with only the sound of the rain, your breathing and his, you could be anywhere; it’s as though you are outside time and space. Just _away_. The thermometer falls out of your mouth; he puts it back in and holds it in place.

He removes the thermometer. There’s a pause, and a slight exhalation, indicating good or bad, you can’t tell. He gets up and walks away. You wonder where the monsters are. Sometime later, maybe minutes or hours, you don’t know, he’s back, only this time he sits beside your head. He leans down and slides his arm under your head and shoulders, supporting you, bringing you upright, stopping only when you gasp in pain. “Sorry, we’ll do this quickly. Open up,” he says, pushing a capsule between your teeth. This is immediately followed by the rim of a glass. It tips so that you can just get at the water. “Swallow,” he says, and you might be affronted by all of his simple commands if you weren’t actually grateful for them, disoriented as you are, and you obey.

Pain blazes up your side. You’re suddenly angry at him for having moved you, for making it hurt, for doing things for you that you should be able to do yourself. Was he the one those murderous rubbish bins were screeching for? 

“ _Are_ you The Doctor?” you grate out. He doesn’t reply, and your simmering anger flares. It’s irrational, but you can’t help it, and stubbornly resist when the next capsule touches your lips, unwilling to cooperate with him if he won’t cooperate with you. He’s having none of it, however. His fingers push right into your mouth this time, depositing the capsule at the back of your throat. Luckily for him, it happens so fast you are too shocked at the intrusion even to bite down. His fingers pull out, you gag, and the glass touches your lips. “Swallow,” he says firmly, and you do. He tips your head right back. “Open your mouth,” he orders, still gentle, but there’s steel beneath. You obey, and he sticks his index finger right in, swiping it around your teeth and under your tongue, checking that the medication has really gone down. Satisfied, his expression immediately softens, becomes apologetic. “Sorry about that, but you really need those antipyretics; I had to be sure you’d taken them both.” 

He eases you down flat again, feels you tense against the pain the movement causes, telling you that your fever will come down soon, just breathe as slowly and deeply as you can, and take a sip of this. A straw pokes between your lips, and the water is the best you’ve ever tasted. You drink until he says, “That’s enough for now.”

***

A cool, wet cloth is laid across your forehead, and the covers are pulled down a bit. Again he listens to your breathing and your heart; again he takes your temperature. You stare into the darkness of the ceiling. Still raining out there, you can hear it spilling off the roof. “What is this place?” you say softly. What you can see of it looks like something off the sci-fi channel, dim, pulsing reds and earth tones, gleaming metal, occasional flashes of blue and orange. Maybe you’re hallucinating.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Now,” he says, before you can continue with the questions, “I’m going to sort out your side. It’s probably not going to feel very pleasant, so I’m going to give you a local anaesthetic. All right?”

He seems to have taken note of the fact that you need to retain some semblance of having a say in all this. You nod, and he prepares several syringes, saying, “Can you turn to face the wall a bit?” He wipes down a few spots low on your side and back, and you try to control your breathing and your fright as the needle slides in over and over. 

He must be able to feel you trembling, because with utter gentleness he presses the fingers of either hand to your forehead, and the fear evaporates. 

“Why are you doing this?” you say, as the numbness creeps over you. As you stop being able to feel nearly half of your own body, you wonder if you're disappearing, fading into nothingness, and whether that would even be so bad. You don’t expect an answer, and at first he doesn’t give one. But then he sighs. 

“I feel a bit responsible.” His face contorts. “Well, I _am_ responsible.”

“What d’you mean?” 

Though obviously reluctant to go on, he does. “You were right. I am The Doctor. Those metal creatures were after me, and you happened to get in the way. Wrong place, wrong time, I’m afraid. Although,” he fixes you in his gaze, and if you didn’t know better you’d say it was admiring, “you did throw a shoe at them, and drew their fire away from a little girl.”

“Did I?” You’d forgotten, or perhaps doubted your ability to trust the memory of your performing such an heroic act. “Well, maybe I did.”

“Oh, there’s no ‘maybe’ about it. You _did_. You were brilliant!” He sounds pleased as punch, and for a moment, you feel proud.

“But why did you bring me in here? Why not just call an ambulance?”

“There are... aspects of what happened tonight that neither Earth doctors nor yourself would be able to cope with.” Almost as an afterthought he adds, “And it’s not often the case that I have the chance to make it right. With you, I do.”

“Oh,” you say, more confused when he does answer questions than when he doesn’t. And then you stop. “What d’you mean, ‘Earth doctors’?”

Almost imperceptibly, he winces, and makes no reply. The room seems even darker now, your eyes struggling to adjust to the contrast with the one lamp he has angled over your side. Maybe it’s deliberate. You’re afraid to look at where the blast hit you, and he’s not encouraging you to. He helps you turn away from him, and your heart begins slamming away in anticipation. A touch to your temple, and it subsides.

He uses your name again. “Donna. You can trust me.”

You know. God help you, you don’t know how, but you know.

“Your system is stable now. So what I’m going to do is regenerate the damaged cells at a rate far quicker and more efficiently than would happen naturally. You should heal completely, and you won’t even have a scar. However, as it’s an unnatural process, your body will resist it. It will be uncomfortable, even with the anaesthetic, but let me know if it gets too much, and I’ll stop. All right?”

“When you say ‘uncomfortable’, you mean hurt like a – ”

“Potentially. Well, yes. But if it gets too much, I can stop the pain; give you a break.” 

“How can you do this? How can you even _do_ this?”

Your eyes lock for a moment, and he looks as though there is so much he wants to say, but he is the first to break the connection. “I just _can_ ,” he says. “I promise, one day I’ll tell you everything... Well, some things, anyway.”

You believe him. “One day?” Like you’re going to meet again after this?

“Can you feel this?” he says, ducking the question again. He does a lot of that.

“Feel what?”

“Goooood. Let’s make a start, then.”

***

“That wasn’t so bad,” you whisper.

You can hear the grin in his voice as he says, “There’s that British irony. Love it.”

No pain now; nothing but coolness and ease as his gentle fingers smooth a pleasant-smelling salve over your side. Exhausted by the release from what had to be _the_ worst pain you’ve ever felt, relieved to be alive, you give into the darkness again. 

***

Sometime later; days or hours, who knows, you’re actually feeling all right, and can’t resist the temptation to get up and go exploring. He catches you in a circular room with a big console-type thing with flashing lights in the middle. You’re just about to experimentally push an intriguing orange button, when he appears from behind and grabs your wrist. 

He grins. “Humans. Can always count on you lot to push the pretty button first, wonder what it does afterwards.” His smile changes a little. “Time to go home.” Funny, he sounds almost sorry to be getting shot of you.

“Is it because I was going to push the button? Cos – ”

“No,” he cuts in. “It’s just time. You’ve got a life to get back to.”

“Wouldn’t go that far.”

“Where do you live?”

You tell him. He punches a combination of buttons, pulls a lever, and a tall column of greeny-bluey energy stuff shoots up to the ceiling. When the whoops and bloops go quiet, and the place stops shuddering, he opens the door and sticks his head out. “Got it in one; not bad if I say so myself.”

He steps outside, and across the way you can see the house that stands opposite your own. This may be your last chance to get some answers.  
“Can’t you tell me _anything_?”

After a moment’s consideration, he smiles. “Well, I can tell you this. We’re going to be friends.”

“Thought we already were. You saved my life. I've been friends with people for less.”

“True, but you’ll have a chance to repay me later.”

“I will?”

“Yeah.” He rocks back on his heels and looks away, as though somehow distancing himself from the admission. 

You have a definite sense that this is all you’re going to get. “Well then. See you around, Spaceman.” You hold out your hand.

He grins, and shakes it warmly. “Until next time, Miss Noble.”

Funny, though. When you get in the door and Mum yells out, “Donna! Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick! All that rioting in the streets last night, and no sign of your ladyship!”, you can’t quite piece together events in a way that makes sense. Nor can you remember exactly why you’re feeling so good. 

But you do.

End.


End file.
